The Host
by Queen of Cups
Summary: The Host reflects on his origins


**Disclaimer: **The Host and his bar belong to Joss, David (Greenwalt) and numerous others. The locations belong to the Polish Government. Only the idea is mine. 

**Acknowledgements:** My long-suffering Hubby, Zigi (again) and the official website of the Polish Tourist Board. 

**Distribution:** The more the merrier, just say the word. 

**Feedback:** Please tip the Author - Thankyou 

**The Host**

The Host looked around his club at the debris of the evening. The last remaining unwashed glasses were in baskets waiting for the dishwasher. The ashtrays were empty now, but the smell of stale cigarettes hung in the air, along with the scent of cologne. With the lights up full, the carpet was looking a little tatty and there were unidentified stains under some of the tables. 

When the last of the tidying was done, the Host blew a kiss to his departing barmen and locked the doors behind them. He sighed and, switching off the lights, headed upstairs to his apartment. 

The apartment was spacious but the furnishings minimal and a little smeary. Throwing off his beautifully cut jacket, the demon walked to bathroom to fill the tub. The Host loved his bathroom. What he had saved on the rest of the apartment's decor had gone here. The carpet was thick and white and the mirrored walls shone. The centrepiece of the room was definitely the bathtub itself. Set dead centre of the room, it was a huge apricot marble whirlpool with shiny gold fittings. He started the water, added a healthy dose of salt and headed to his bedroom to undress. 

Slipping into the lukewarm water, he started the spa and closed his eyes, allowing the jets of water to ease away the tensions of the night. Almost without noticing, he began to sing. Not his usual brand of karaoke classic, but a song his Grandmother had taught him long ago and far away ... 

**Gdansk, Poland 1969**

The child moved almost silently, staying as close to wall as he could. He had learned when he was four years old that he was to stay in the shadows at all times. Now it came as second nature to him. Clutching a small bundle to his chest, he sidled past the policemen on the corner without them even noticing. 

Home at last, he slipped off his threadbare jacket and handed the brown paper package he had been guarding to his mother. She hugged him briefly - enough for him to feel her gratitude - then hurried to the washroom. He watched her go, then pouring a little milk for himself he went to the parlour to sit with his Grandmother. As usual, she was knitting. Her eyes never left the flickering screen of the small TV, but her fingers were quick and sure. As she worked, she softly hummed an old folk song. He watched for a while, but the show failed to interest him. Instead he turned to the old woman. 

"Grandmother," he began "what is that song?" 

"Ah. It is a call to arms, child. A battle cry from another age. The melody is sad, because the men who sang it knew that they may never return, but the refrain is a prayer for glory." Her eyes lit up. "Do you wish me to teach you, Witold?" 

He nodded, and they sang together for a while. When the last refrain of the song died away, he said "Grandmother, why must I always hide myself from people?" 

His Grandmother sighed. She had seen the question forming in his mind. "Child. You remember your friend, the Lipytz boy?" He nodded "Well, you remember the day the policemen took his father away? They said it was because he was a thief. Well, it wasn't. It was because he was not registered." 

"Registered?" 

"All non-humans are to be registered at the Town Hall." 

"Are we?" 

"No, that is why we hide ourselves. The police think we moved away six months ago." 

Witold frowned. "Why must we register, Grandmother?" 

"Because we are different, and we must pay the price for that" The old woman's words were filled with anger. Thirty years ago she had witnessed similar "registration". It had resulted in tens of thousands of deaths. She knew which way the wind was blowing. There was that feeling in the air again. Them and Us. Why else would policemen now watch over grocery stores to see who bought salt? Their kind needed it. Although they had many blessings, the need to bathe daily in briny water was a worry. Once the docks were a safe bathing ground, now they had to hide away in washrooms and cellars, hoping nobody would discover their green flesh and webbed feet. Every day, Witold's father would file his horns flat and paint his skin. One day he would be caught. They all knew that. Now the boy knew too. 

It took longer than they had expected. Six months had passed before Ladzlaw didn't come home. Witold's mother waited until nightfall, and when he still had not returned she calmly set about making up bundles of food and clothing for herself, her mother, and her son. The only hope now was to make the long trek to the border and try to get away. Hiding had brought them this far. Now it was time to take action. She went to the kitchen and took the wad of bills that was her husband's life savings from a coffee can on the dresser. As she took one last look at her tiny, neat tenement she wiped away a tear. There would be time enough for grief later, and plenty of it before the journey was over, of that she was certain. She turned and taking her son's hand, slipped away into the night. 

They hugged the coastline. Once away from the city, they were able to find a few quiet spots to bathe. Progress though, with a seventy-year-old woman and a seven-year-old boy in tow, was slow. Their meagre food supplies were running low a few days into the journey. Terrified to spend money that they may need, Witold's mother rationed their supplies carefully but made sure her son's stomach was always full, even if hers was not. 

A week passed. Witold trudged wearily alongside his mother, trying desperately to hide how cold, hungry and tired he was. They had managed to get about 75 miles along the coast, travelling mostly by night, but the going was hard. Their food was all gone, and they were reduced to foraging in the rubbish tips of the various small towns they passed. His Grandmother coughed and stumbled slightly. He took her arm, and she patted his small hand gratefully. He smiled, masking his fear. She was getting weak, he thought, and her health - never good at best - was beginning to deteriorate. The frigid wind whipped her hair and whistled through the holes in his jacket. He huddled closer to her, and hoped that their combined warmth would be enough to combat the bitter cold of the Polish winter. 

It was another week before the family reached the outskirts of Kolobzeg. Once a fashionable seaside resort, the city was now dirty and run-down, but to them, it was a diamond. It marked the halfway point between Gdansk and the East German border. None of them wanted to think about what would happen after that point - it was too much like tempting fate. If only their own future had been as clear to them as that of others. 

After spending a few filthy and degrading hours rooting through a rubbish dump the family began to look for some shelter. As dawn broke, they found themselves one the waterfront. On the docks were some derelict warehouses. They walked the perimeter looking for a way in, until they found a door which was half off its hinges. The family pushed their way in, and found themselves looking into the eyes of around fifty other demons of various species, all looking at them with fear and suspicion. Clasping their meagre belongings to them like a shield, the family began to back away towards the door. 

"Stop." Came the cry. "You don't have to go. It's alright." 

Witold looked around to see who had spoken. His eyes settled on a large human-looking man who was walking towards them. Human-looking maybe, but there was something ... Witold couldn't place what it was that made the man different. He could just sense something. The feeling made him nervous. He knew that his abilities would surface one day, but he hadn't been prepared for the sensation at all. 

The man approached and extended his hand. "Welcome, sisters. You are safe here. Don't be afraid." He took the women's hands and held them comfortingly. Looking down, he smiled at Witold, who suddenly got a feeling of immense reassurance. His Grandmother smiled weakly at him. "You feel it? Good." 

"Come mother" said the man "Sit and I will tell you all" 

He took the old woman's arm and lead her and the family to a corner of the room where blankets had been piled to form a more comfortable seating area. Now that the other demons were satisfied that there was no danger, a low hum of conversation began. The old woman sat, nodded approvingly, and promptly fell asleep. 

"I am Yashek." The man began "I help our kind." With an almost imperceptible nod, his face changed, growing longer. His skin turned blue and his eyes red. "I am fortunate enough to be able hide my true form from prying eyes. I know that you planned on travelling to the border, but I think you underestimate the journey. It is at least another 100 kilometres to Swinoujscie, and even if you manage to get there, the border is sealed. In the unlikely event of you being able to make the crossing, you would still have to travel around 200 kilometres through communist East Germany to reach the West. Two borders and 300 kilometres to cross with no food, an old woman and a young boy. Frankly, I don't like your chances. That's where you have been fortunate. We are due to take passage on a fishing boat headed for Denmark tonight. Once there, you will find it far easier to pick up a ship to wherever you are headed." He nodded towards the sleeping woman. "You know it is the only chance she has. She is already sick. I apologise but I must be blunt, another trek cross-country in this weather will probably finish her. If you have a little money, you can join us." 

After dark that evening, the family joined the huddle of ragged and fearful demons on the dockside. Witold held his mother's hand very tightly as they both supported his Grandmother. From over the water came the sound of an approaching vessel. People gathered their belongings and prepared to board. 

The captain of the ship ushered his passengers on board and showed them where they spend the six-hour trip. It was a large, cold cargo area, presumably the one that was used to store fish judging by the smell of the place. Everyone huddled in their family groups and waited to depart. Yashek joined them, and the ship began to turn slowly out to sea. 

The further they got from land, the colder it became. After a while Witold could no longer feel his fingers, but he still felt exhilarated. They were on their way! 

Exhilaration turned to fear soon enough though. Witold felt his Grandmother sway heavily against him and turning, saw that she had almost lost consciousness. He pushed her upright. "Please Grandmother", he begged "Try to stay awake. It's only a few more hours now." He urged her to keep her eyes open and tried to encourage her to talk. When her words finally came however, they were weak and slurred. 

Fear gripped the whole party of demons a while later when they heard another vessel draw alongside and a loudhailer voice call out for the Captain. It was the Coastguard. 

Yashek sprung to his feet and climbed the steps to the deck. Witold was overcome by curiosity and, having ensured that his Mother was taking care of his Grandmother, quietly slipped up the stairs behind him. 

The Captain was fighting a losing battle with the official. The Coastguard was insisting that the ship return to Polish Territorial Waters. The Captain claimed that he had his nets out and that it would take half-an-hour at least to bring them in. 

Yashek stepped from the shadows. "Comrade Coastguard," he called out "May I speak?" 

The official turned and looked at him, and as he did so, his eyes seemed to glaze a little. 

"The ship can continue on it's current course." said Yashek, mildly. 

The Coastguard nodded vaguely. 

"You will check with the Port Authority in the morning, to ensure that it has returned." 

Another nod. 

"You can return to your patrol now." 

The Coastguard turned and signalled to his officers. The patrol ship's engines started up again and they began to draw away. Yashek staggered and fell against a guard-rail. Witold hurried to his side, heedless of the risk. He helped the demon to his feet. All the while he could sense Yashek's intense pain. 

"Thankyou child" he whispered "I can manage now" 

Witold could still feel the aftershock of Yashek's pain, but the demon seemed to steel himself and returned to the cargo area unaided. 

Once back in the hold, Witold rushed to his Grandmother's side. Her eyes were only half-opened and her breathing weak and laboured. 

"Grandmother" Witold pleaded "Wake up. We are so close now. Once we are ashore, we will eat and find good shelter and you will feel better." Tears streamed down the boy's face for although his words were full of hope, he knew that she was dying. He could feel it in every fibre of his being. He tried to will her to open her eyes, using all the strength of his young mind. For a moment it appeared to have an effect, but then she slipped back again. Hours passed. Then finally, a cry from up on deck alerted the passengers. They had arrived. Witold ran to the steps to look out from the deck, and there in the distance were the twinkling lights of the harbour at Copenhagen. Witold had never seen anything more beautiful. He hurried back to his family. Lifting his Grandmother to her feet, he almost dragged the old woman up to the deck. "Look Grandmother." He said "We made it." 

She smiled at him and patted his hand "Yes. We made it. Now I must rest." 

"Not now Grandmother," begged Witold "We're so close. Come, sing with me." His thin, child's voice picked out the melody of the song she had taught him. She joined in the refrain. A call to arms. A song of action and tragedy. Her voice grew silent. She slid down to a sitting position and as the harbour lights grew ever nearer, she closed her eyes. Witold held her hand tightly. He knew she was gone, but he continued the song to its solemn end. When his mother reached them through the crowd some twenty minutes later, she found them like that. Her son holding his Grandmothers hand tightly. Shaking with cold and heartbreak, but still holding on... 

The Host's eyes snapped open and he realised that his bath had grown completely cold. He stepped out and drained it, carefully rinsing away the salty residue that left such unpleasant stains otherwise. A few moments later, dried, in his robe and drinking some hot herbal tea, the Host reflected on the early memories of his life. 

His mother had been immensely strong, and somehow or another they had managed to get from Denmark to France, where they had finally managed to stow away on a ship bound for Canada. Once there, his mother had tried to make contact with old friends in Poland for news of his father. It never came. When his mother died ten years later, he had known that it was from a broken heart. He had sold up and headed for the sunshine coast of California where he tended bar for a few years. People told him their troubles, and he tried to give good advice, but he found that for some reason he could only really accurately predict their fate if he could hear them sing. Maybe it was a hangover from that night in the Baltic Sea. Who knew? It seemed natural though that when he had the funds to open his own place, it would be somewhere for people to drink, laugh, but most of all sing. He wondered what his Grandmother would have thought. He attempted to visualise her, and as the image formed he could see her lips moving but could not hear the words. He closed his eyes. He hadn't been surprised. His gift may allow him to see what was to be, but very few people are privy to what might have been. 


End file.
